


Le Coeur Lupin

by KitLlwynog



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Assassination, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gothic, Intrigue, Language of Flowers, Magic, Multi, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:00:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitLlwynog/pseuds/KitLlwynog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of a Dalish bard serving the Lady Nightingale, an unassuming portraitist, and an infamous rebel who calls himself the Dread Wolf.  Lavellan despises the wolf with all of her being, and yet finds herself forced by her service to her lady to interact with him.  Dragged down into his plot, is it really him that has the upper hand, or is it her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

> I will not be updating this on a schedule, just when the urge strikes. If it wins the next voting round after Somnium ends, I will dedicate myself to finishing it. Otherwise, it'll happen when it happens.

“You there! Knife-ear!” The call came from behind her, and Mirane paused, gathering up the skirts of her simple day dress to turn about. The fabric rustled, underskirts twisting around her.

The Chevalier caught sight of the markings upon her face, and they momentarily stole the words from his tongue as she dipped into her curtsy, low and gliding.

“Yes, ser?” She inquired politely, with grace both inborn and practiced. It would not do now to cause any strife. Not with the Chevaliers.

“I have a message for the Lady Nightingale.” His voice was slightly more respectful now, but she knew it was only superstition. That’s part of why she’d been hired, after all. The Lady Nightingale did love leaving people unbalanced.

“Thank you, ser.” She simpered, averting her gaze appropriately and sweeping past him after she accepted the note. Three steps between them, just out of arm’s reach. Never stand within arm’s reach if you can help it.

She could not say she precisely had a problem with the Chevaliers visiting for the ball, apart from the fact that they had decided to take over the household. This was the third one that had barked orders at her only today, and the first one that had stopped at just ‘knife ear’. Her little blades were as sharp as they were numerous, but, as she reminded herself for not the first time…They were guests. Her lady’s guests.

 

She knocked twice, as anyone might expect, and then delicately a third time two seconds later before slipping in. Lady Nightingale was busy being dressed, and Mira waited patiently as the girl jerked on the corset strings. How the Lady bore it without complaint never failed to impress her. Her own completely lacked the bonings and torture the humans seemed to find necessary.

As the corset cover went on over the stiffer fabric beneath, Leliana let out a sigh, smoothing her hands over her hair before turning her gaze to the gathered women.

“Forgive me for interrupting your duties, but I fear plans have changed slightly for tonight’s soiree. Friseur, I am afraid you will need to be playing the part of Nandida. Mercer, you will take over her station monitoring the salon.” 

Mira felt a start of surprise, and then disappointment. It was not that she enjoyed playing Nandida the Rivani, painting on all the tattoos took over an hour and it was too common to get backed into a corner somewhere. She delighted in the dancing, at the very least. So freeing to be out of heavy skirts and into the scandalous Rivani-style garments. The nobility never noticed that she was never the same elf. It was incredible the amount of things Lady Nightingale knew that people would never even see.

“Hunter.” Leliana continued, and Mira snapped her gaze up to her, solemnly. “I must ask that you live up to your name tonight.” Her voice was utterly serious, but there was a hint of humor in her eyes, an impish little twinkle. “There is word that a wolf will be visiting our party.”

That startled her, a hint of fear and anger mixing with rather unladylike eagerness. The Dread Wolf? Here?

“Even with the Knight Captain visiting this evening? He is feeling very bold.” She found herself saying it as manners and habit took over, stifling a small, polite laugh.

“Indeed. One wonders what, precisely, he has heard that has made him so curious. Have there been any rumors as of late that would draw his interest?” 

“Only the ordinary, Lady Nightingale. Scrivener overheard Baron de Sauveterre complaining that there were too many uppity elves in the manor, and so she had the cook beat her within his hearing. It seems to have cooled his distaste.”

“I doubt that he used such pleasant terms. That man…complaining about how one treats their servants while a guest in their home?” Leliana scoffed, and then returned to business, though their voices were pitched as if making delicate, appropriate conversation. “The rumor spread, then? That’s hardly serious enough to have brought his interest upon us. It must be something to do with one of the guests.”

“I will find what I can, my lady.” Mercer spoke up, in her misty manner. “He was last seen at the Geroux estate, after Lord Jean-Baptiste drove the Dalish off of his land with his hunting dogs.”

“The Dalish? I was under the impression that he did not particularly care for the Dalish.”

“Nor we him, I assure you.” Mira remarked, mildly, keeping her voice as neutral as she could manage. “The young First of their clan summoned a demon to defend them from the dogs. I suspect he was expecting something of the sort. Neither demon nor First survived the encounter.”

“Ah. Yes.” Leliana finally agreed, once she had stepped into the heavy skirt the girl had brought for her. “Do try to discover what you can. It may be one of our dear friends is hiding something from us. That will be all, ladies. You may return to your duties.”

She had seen the look the Lady gave to her, and she went to open the door for the others, letting them slip out before closing it gently.

“Hunter, please try to be…discreet. You are free to let him overpower you if you must, rather than show your hand. He will not be likely to harm you, but do cover your marks just to be certain. Garcon tonight, I think, and you may go serve in the kitchen.” 

Displeasure settled in her stomach, but she nodded her head graciously all the same. She would much rather be sent to kill him than to watch him, but perhaps he would try something and give her the chance. Bobbing a quick curtsy, she turned for the door, slipping back out to the hallway. It was time to get the breakfast trays.

 

It was Emmaline today who was organizing the deliveries to their visitors, most trays long gone by the time Mira was able to catch up with the other serving girls. Stopping to change into the servant’s mask and uniform had made her grateful yet again for her lack of proper corsets. No one commented on her late arrival, not even the poor cook. He was still apologizing to Scrivener for the whipping, despite the fact that it had been her who had told him to. It was an expected thing at Lady Nightingale’s estate that strange things would happen, but some of them were more comfortable with it than others. Especially the Lady’s maids.

“Knight Captain, if you please, girl.” Scrivener ordered her, passing along a heavy tray. Extra tea, she had no doubt. Templars never slept very well. “You’ve come in on the tail end, so that will be all. Afterwards, I would like you to clean the library.”

“Of course, Mistress Emmaline.” She responded cheerfully, biting back her disappointment. She had wanted to go peek at the portrait again. Perhaps she would take a minute before going to prepare the library. He likely wouldn’t remember to eat his breakfast unless reminded.

Library, she mused, as she paced through the halls, completely invisible now out of her nicer clothes, in the full-face blank mask the female servants wore. It did have a balcony that overlooked the ball room. Lady Nightingale was right, as she had no doubt told Scrivener to send her there for the day. That would be the best vantage point. Well, she would spend the day preparing the space. Perhaps even get in some cleaning.

A lady’s bard pretending to be a lady’s maid pretending to be a servant, tonight disguised as a boy to hunt a wolf. The convoluted thought amused her, despite Knight Captain Denam’s brusqueness as she dropped off his breakfast. It didn’t bother her, she would rather someone be dismissive and surly than aggressive. Still, her steps were quick as she left his quarters, nervous as ever around Templars. Sometimes she thought the Nightingale would send her to tend to them just to test her control. 

Being tested constantly was helpful, but it did get a little tiring. Like being perpetually kept in a dance that you weren’t allowed to escape. It wasn’t the steps of that dance that took her to the door at the west wing of the manor, creaking open under the pressure of her fingertips. It was her own curiosity. She’d always known her desperate thirst for new knowledge and experiences was dangerous, but this time it was innocent.

Peeking in, she smiled as she caught sight of him at the backless chair he preferred, tray on a nearby table completely untouched. Of course it was. He’d likely make some sort of pointed remark about the importance of morning light if she tried to bring it up.

Her step was deliberately heavy, as she reached up and removed her protective mask. Giving him a chance to hear her so she couldn’t be accused of startling him. It was so odd to be bare-faced now, but he said that he preferred it. She didn’t ever think she’d seen him wear a mask. Gauche, to be certain, but being an elf and an artist afforded one some liberties, she supposed. Eccentricities were expected.

“Good morning. I was wondering when you would come to spy upon me.” He remarked, voice low and rich, hiding a frisson of humor.

“Tsk, Messere Solas! The things you say!” She scolded him, taking the last few steps around to his side to peek at the canvas. “Oh! You finished the eyes! Yesterday must have been quite productive for you. It is a remarkable likeness.”

“Lady Leliana found time to sit for me, yes. With her gathering this evening, however, I doubt she will find the time today. I will be working on the background.” He replied, well used to her prying questions by now, at least enough to anticipate them.

“Are you going to hide in here all evening, then?” She kept her voice light, breezy. It wouldn’t do for anyone to overhear and think she was flirting. She hadn’t quite decided yet herself if she was or not. He was…fascinating.

“I sincerely doubt that anyone wishes to see me at a ball, serah.” He replied, returning her Marcher address casually, but not condescendingly. “Least of all the human nobility.”

“And yet they vie for yours to be the hand that paints them.”

“It is the way of the world. Do you find it so burdensome yourself? Perhaps you wish you’d made different choices?” 

She considered his questions for a few moments, before smiling, small but genuine. He had the most curious way of asking questions that would be utterly inappropriate coming from anyone else.

“A thousand branching paths may lay before each of us, Messere, but for most they lead to the same destination in the end. Please try to remember your breakfast, won’t you?” Straightening up, she pulled on her mask again, tying it behind her head.

“The light is where I need it to be at the moment.” He replied distractedly, already going back to his canvas. She hid a light laugh with her hand as she slipped out into the hall.

 

It had been a quick day, full of noise and the bustling activity that always precluded a party. Mira’s little corner of the manor had been busy now and again, maids coming and cleaning shelves, fussing about. There had been some visiting nobles as well, but she knew every inch of the beautiful space with its vaulted ceilings and twisted columns. It had not been hard to avoid them. When she was done with her day’s work, she’d finished studying a tome on preparing poisons, stored a half-dozen weapons in various hiding spots, and gotten in some light dusting. It would have to do. She didn’t dare even think about wards with the Dread Wolf coming. The last thing she wished him to be was curious.

Sitting at her vanity in the shared common room the Lady’s maids had been settled in, she carefully applied the greasepaint to her cheeks. It was always shocking to watch her Vallaslin disappearing, the bold lines covered up by a thick application of the makeup. It made her a different woman. She always did so on a night like tonight, even when in a full-face mask. Tonight, however, she would have to wear the serving boy’s liveried domino mask. Burgundy and black.

Mercer had already done her hair, tightly tying it back into a simple tail that left her skull aching. She was lucky that Orlesians could barely tell elves apart, let alone male from female. Master the walk, keep your head down and breasts bound, and they’d be calling you 'boy’ without a second thought. Once she was done she submitted to the binding, wincing the whole time as Emmaline wrapped the bandages around her, slimming down her torso.

“You’ve been eating better.” It was a tease, but with a hint of concern, the other maid tightening the next wrapping even more. Mira let out a shudder of breath at the pain.

“I will…start having broth for dinner, then…it may be the muscle, however.” She huffed, feeling the breath being squeezed out of her.

“It may be. Well, there’s a girl in training yet who’s only fourteen. If we need a boy she may do for a time, unless she turns out to be like Jeanette and ends up with bosoms the size of her head by fifteen.” Emmaline’s smile was as impish as her voice.

“I heard that, Mistress Scrivener!” Mercer chided wispily from across the room, gripping the edge of her vanity as another maid tightened her corset with brutal focus. “I will have you know that I received a very flattering and positively scandalous poem from de Sauveterre’s younger son today, praising them quite highly!”

As the laughter turned raucous, and the gossip became more lurid, Mira slipped away into her bedroom to find her boy’s uniform. Even now it was hard for her to relax enough to call the other women her friends. They had welcomed her, as just another of their strange and secretive sisterhood. Someone else who could discuss dinner parties and the best way to poison a dagger in the same breath. There was nowhere that she truly belonged, but this could almost feel like a kind of home.

The walls were so stifling at times, however. It made her feel like a halla that had been bound in ribbons and bells and then made to pull a carriage.

 

The library was dark, only a few gas lights casting their glow in small pools at the ends of the bookshelves. She avoided them simply as casual practice, weaving her way silently through the room, towards the lighter end where it overlooked the ballroom. He was not here, not yet. She would have known, she’d tasted his magic before. The instant he used it, she would be aware.

When he had come to her clan, full of arrogance and demands, they had turned him away. Most had turned him away, though she knew some had accepted what he claimed was freedom. Freedom. The thought made her want to spit even now. What did he think they could do, rise up and defeat the humans? Their numbers were too few, their people to weak and weighed under centuries of abuse. His freedom was only a quick death.

And yet he kept pushing it, forcing it in their faces. Converting the elves with his clever tricks and petty fights. Dodging the templars, slipping out of the grasp of Chantry and Circle alike. His audacity had turned more than a few heads and positively thrilled Orlais, but it had also made him quite a few enemies. She liked to consider herself one. Perhaps she’d be gifted with the opportunity to be counted amongst his.

She paced to the balcony railing, hands gripping it as she gazed downwards. It was a lovely vantage point to watch a party, color and music and brilliant light below. As was habit, she idly picked out each of the bards in this part of the manor, one by one. No one in any trouble. Mira was watching a particularly interesting bit of forbidden courtship when she felt it, a tingle on the back of her neck. She’d never felt anything like it, though her first ride in a train car had come close. That rumble and vibration, teasing at instincts she’d been fighting so hard to bury. One hand flexed, fingers curling in towards her palm. There he was.

Keep in mind the Lady’s words, she reminded herself as she slipped into the darkness of the library, following the trail of it. Hunt, but do not show your teeth. All she was meant to do is see what he did. Be caught, if he was looking for something to catch. The thought galled her, and once more she hoped he was looking for a fight. 

Following the little siren song, she paced slowly out of the library, turning left and heading deeper into the old maze of a building. It echoed, always ahead of her, leading her further into halls lit more and more sparingly by the gaslights. At last, she came to the top of a short staircase, doors wide open. 

The gardens, then.

Not for enjoying the night air, she’d imagine, that certainly wasn’t his way. He enjoyed being noticed, throwing his rebellion in people’s faces. Avoiding a few occupied alcoves, but noting the occupants discreetly, she wended her way through the garden. She could feel it to her left as she paced down a walkway to the old gazebo covered in vines, their flowers tightly closed in the darkness. Her steps were heavy, deliberate to match her garb, and the stairs creaked under her.

She knew she wouldn’t hear him coming, especially as she had turned her back to him, quite on purpose.

When the snare came, she stifled down the urge to fight it, let it wrap around her limbs and throat and push her back against the thin wooden lattice. It wasn’t very strong, she knew she could have broken it in a heartbeat. Instead, she gave a frightened gasp, eyes going wide as her head was jerked up, arms folded behind her back. If she unfocused her eyes she could see it, green and sinuous, twisted around her. A moment’s indulgence, admiring the magic, before she lifted her gaze to face the wolf.

“I am not certain why you thought that would convince me you were frightened. Not a particularly inspired bit of playacting. I expected better from one of Lady Nightingale’s little bards.” 

The mockery in his quiet voice was smooth as he approached. Stalked, may have been a better descriptor, however. Between the heavy hood and the leather wolf’s mask, all she could see was the smirk on his lips and the faint reflection of his eyes in the dark.

“Serah Wolf.” She greeted, leaving off of her testing of him. “Lady Nightingale sends her warmest regards.”

“I’m certain she does. Does she have you all skulking about the manor all night looking for me?” The arrogance was thick in his voice, and she longed to choke him on it. “You did find me more quickly than I expected.”

“Lady Nightingale was pleased to find you’d invited yourself.” Mira replied, relaxing somewhat in the grip of his magic. Just enough to have her feet under her, should she need to. He didn’t have to arch her spine so, though. There was such a thing as courtesy.

“So polite in your rudeness. Is that what they teach you?” To her horror, he rested an elbow on the pillar next to her shoulder, leaning in far too close for her comfort, idly lifting the corner of her mask, ribbons coming undone. “How to wear the prettiest of collars and speak the wittiest of lies?”

“Are you wishing for lessons, Serah Wolf? Because I assure you, touching a lady without her permission would be considered a grave faux pas.” She barely kept the anger from her voice, but he could no doubt see it, the tightening of her arms as she tried to free her wrists. Her palm itched to slap him.

“I see no lady here. Only a silly girl playing human games while, amusingly enough, dressed very poorly as a boy. If you think that will keep them from abusing you, you know very little of Orlesians.” There was a pause, and he dropped the corner of her mask, abruptly dragging a thumb up her cheek.

She was too shocked to riposte his little barb, jaw tight and trembling with a mixture of rage and sheer horror. How dare he touch her? And all so casually, rubbing his finger and thumb together after removing it from her face, wiping the makeup on his cloak. 

He leaned in, and she recoiled internally, closing her eyes as he murmured directly against her ear. “A slave’s mask, with a slave’s markings hiding underneath. How charmingly clever.” His hand was back on her face, gripping her chin, thumb on her lips to silence her. “Is it so pleasing a thing to be chained up, little dog? Tell me, is there a set of chains you prefer over the other? Or were you so unsatisfied with being shackled to the past that you decided to shackle yourself to Orlais as well?”

He was close, too close. She could feel his thigh against hers, the light but steely grip of his long gloved fingers. The heat of his breath against her ear and neck. And she wasn’t allowed to do a thing. Every ounce of her was aching to unleash on him, destroy him, but she held back. She could recover from indignity, but not knowing that she had failed Lady Nightingale. His hand finally dropped, and she had a chance to breathe again, making her tightly-bound chest ache with the force of it.

She was finally ready to say her piece when she felt the edge of something sharp sliding up the front of her throat, out of her limited view. She inhaled deeply, as it curved up along the edge of her jaw, light as a caress. Her lips parted to speak, and he shoved the edge of an envelope between them. She bit down out of reflex, hoping above hope that he could see how fiercely she was glaring at him.

“A message for your Mistress, little dog. I would be very pleased if you could deliver it for me.”

And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the shadows. She seethed in silence, waiting for the magic around her to fade, teeth clamped down on the envelope so hard that her jaw ached. Her breath fluttered in and out through her nose, fingers curling in to her palms.

If only. If only she had leave to fight back. Perhaps she would yet get another chance. She believed in nothing, no Maker or Creators to guide her hand, but her gaze fixed beyond the gazebo to the sky above, fixing on the stars. 

 

Spirits. Gods. Anything. Give her a way to kill the Dread Wolf.


	2. Chassé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little holiday present for my lovely readers.

Any indignity could be borne. It was one of Mirane’s most enduring skills, brought about by a lifetime of being the lowest creature within sight of any and all. Her rage eventually subsided, curled into the hard, cold place inside her where she kept her treasured vendettas. This one was old, the flickering blue flame fed by the new insult.

The magic had faded quickly, likely more quickly than it should have, but she was feeling quite over this evening. Not even the allure of a ball and all of its intricacies and intrigues could soothe her restless heart. The envelope was slid into the front of her uniform, slipped out of sight against the bandages underneath. Mask in place, makeup smudged back over her marks, she began her trek back.

Habit and training, she scanned the alcoves as she paced back out of the garden, making note yet again of who lingered. And, of course, who they lingered with. No one noticed an elf boy in servant’s garb. The memory of his magic yet tingled across her skin, taste on the back of her tongue like Orlesian herbed spirits. Too alluring, still luring, but she forced it aside.

The wending halls brought her back to light and sound, eyes scanning as she ducked her chin in deference. There, Trapper, leaning next to an ornate marble pillar. One so rarely saw him, he blended in so well amongst the crowds in his noble finery. The Lady Nightingale hired very few men, but Trapper was special. She was fairly certain he did not work for at all, but simply traveled the same path the Lady Leliana did more often than not.

No amount of gilding and frippery could hide elven ears, but he managed to lounge with a grace and poise that put him above the common. No doubt it irritated the nobles, which would account for his smirk. She took a post next to him, hands clasping at her waist, head lowering.

“Ah, little lad. It has been…some time since I have seen you. Whatever can I do for you?” He asked, Antivan accent thick and slurred.

“I seek a Lady, good ser.” She replied meekly, voice lowered to a whisper.

“Are you quite certain you do not seek a man?” His smirk was sly and knowing, and it was all she could do to hide her own amusement as he leaned in close to her. The brush of breath across her ear brought back memories of the garden. “For I am certain I could find you a position if you desire one, no?”

“The Lady’s dog ran loose in the garden, ser.” She replied, hiding her lingering mix of emotions with considerable strain, only training serving her against his wanton teasing. “I must deliver word.”

“Ah, of course. Perhaps I will…find you later.” Trapper suggested, idly toying with the neck of her tunic, curling a finger in it as he gazed across the room. Careful, of course, not to touch her. “The Lady is in the azure salon, little hunter.”

Stepping back, escaping his casual grip with a gentle tug of fabric, she bowed her head politely to the Antivan elf and turned on her heel. It was…tempting. How often did anyone but a human with crude and demanding intent show any sign of interest in her? He was pleasant company, and he was acquainted with the lady.

 

Besides, Mercer claimed he was quite skilled.

 

The thought was intensely intriguing, a warm little musing as she slid through uncaring humans, gossiping and scorning one another. Unbidden, thoughts of the portraitist in his quiet room, peace and the canvas before him rose into her mind. The pleasant normality of their conversations. No. She would forego Trapper’s company, no matter how enticing it was.

At least, she would for now. She found herself longing for that simple solitude, the beautiful painting and the man who painted it. Perhaps it was time to see if she could be coy, after all. The thought was soothingly sweet, until the shadow of a wolf overtook it, sullied it.

Leather-clad fingers on her cheek, breath caressing her ear. She could not forgive him for touching her so, but neither could she forget the way it felt. Cursed man. Her bed would be rather rumpled, once she’d found her way into it tonight.

 

The Lady Nightingale was holding court as she always was, and Mira intercepted a tray of drinks, the server giving it up without complaint. They looked much of a kind, though he was genuine where she was false. No one of import would notice, their masks were faces to the powerful.

Her head down, she crept into the salon, fingers plucking drinks from her tray, lightening her load. She took the shortest route to where the Nightingale rested against a long divan, watching as much as she spoke. She was resplendent tonight in azure and honey, intricate beading glittering in the lights. So bright, for a woman who manipulated shadows. Just one more layer of intrigue. Bowing her head, she waited until she was acknowledged with a flick of slender fingers, and then crept forward.

The barest edge of the envelope peeked out of her tunic, and as she knelt down to offer the tray, it was discreetly slid out to disappear amongst Lady Leliana’s skirts, behind the cover of Mira’s body. The interception was smooth with the ease of practice, a step in a dance they knew all too well. Once her tray was empty, she rose again, bowed her head, and slunk off with a servant’s posture.

Her night was done, she had done her duty. Perhaps she could have stayed and gathered information, but the bandages were biting into tender flesh, and her skin was prickling with unease. It had been an unpleasant evening, and she would like for it to be over.

The path back to the maids’ quarters was familiar, and she avoided any interceptions with ease. By the time she ducked into their empty common room, she was feeling quite comfortably relaxed. She had unfastened her tunic and drawn it off before she pushed open her door, abruptly affixed by a sudden chill.

 

Her window was open.

 

Shivering, she slipped in, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Her fireplace had gone out, apart from a few banked coals still smoldering. Slinking aside, still scanning the gloom, she knelt down and carefully began feeding wood to the fire, coaxing it back into life.

There was no one there that she could sense, but her nerves were still afire, high and trembling. Memory of the garden, of the wolf and his long, steely fingers lingered yet upon her skin.

As the flames surged to life, filling the chamber with a glow, she turned about. Hands moved instinctively for hidden knives, but her room was empty. The shutters were spread wide, the cold air whistling in, but that was not what drew her attention.

Resting across her pillow, a single yellow-throated iris, its petals dark violet at the edges. She stared at it for a time, lips delicately pursing together.

The meaning was clear, simple. It was a language she spoke as well as the one on her tongue. An iris meant there was a message to be sent, and the open window was an invitation. Swaying to her feet, she began unwinding the bandages from around herself, flesh marked red and ridged from the force of them. She took in a deep breath as they peeled from her skin, eyes closing as she stripped it away.

No, she could not play the boy much longer.

Once she was free of them, she sighed in relief, stripping out of the rest of her boy’s uniform and fetching a simple garment from the armoire. He could wait. The excitement tingled across her skin despite her composure and focus, fluttering in her throat and mind. 

The wolf wanted a private word with her, or so he claimed from the signs. Perhaps she would be able to kill him discreetly after all. It could not be anyone else to be so presumptuous.

Her nightdress was unwise, and so she tugged on a long split tunic instead, a faded black that fit shadows better than ebony. Underneath she strapped knives to her thighs, about her waist a pocketed belt, and a sheath with a single poisoned blade between her unbound breasts. Enough to slay a beast. The rest of her little knives would have to stay in the bottom of her armoire for now.

Letting her hair free, she deliberately brushed it out before turning to the window at last, firelight behind her, cold air before her. It roused a flush to her cheeks, as she pressed her waist to the chilled stone and peeked out at the courtyard below.

She was so focused on the ground that she did not feel him above her until it was nearly too late, leather-wrapped feet settling to the left of her shoulder. She was too trained to be shocked, but she did breathe in faintly, displeased by his perch.

As if he was not already sufficiently taller than her.

“You longed for my company so soon, Serah Wolf?” She asked, not hiding the bite of arrogance.

“Ah, good, you flatter yourself so that I need not bother.” The sneer in his voice didn’t bother her, she was already examining the half-bare feet resting next to her.

His perch was too secure, she couldn’t simply topple him into the courtyard. A pity. Elven dexterity could be a curse at times. Still, she indulged in imagining it, once. He would make such a lovely noise upon impact. Would he howl when he fell?

“Your manners grow more and more charming each time I see you. What a pleasant thing it must be, to have so little care for how others see you.”

“If you are quite finished, perhaps we could go rescue the good Knight Captain before he is found dead in his bed tomorrow morning. Only a suggestion, mind you, if you’d like to go do your hair again, I am quite certain he will only be partially murdered.” The faint sound of his voice barely carried, but she could hear the distaste in it.

Her gaze shifted up and aside, eyes narrowing faintly in the darkness. The mask made it impossible to see his face, but the downward twist of his lips was highlighted by the barest edge of firelight.

“You wish for me to believe you, an apostate, care if a Templar is killed? Come, serah, I am not so gullible.” 

“A favor to your Lady, in exchange for the favor I have asked of her. A good little dog, to not spy on her letter, but your ignorance in this matter has made you blind. I would summon another from your kennel, but they are all occupied, or human and cannot go where I lead. I find your company no more pleasant than you find mine.” 

Her reluctance was overcome by the simple knowledge that it would be an incredibly damaging thing for the Lady if it were true. A dead guest, a dead templar in her home would bring down attention that none of them wanted.

 

Especially not her.

 

Even as her mind protested, she pulled herself up onto the thick stone ledge, bare feet easily finding purchase. Cold, but bearable. Even if he were lying, it would be a simple thing to discover.

“Very well then, serah. Do try to keep up.” She ordered loftily, turning about on her toes and pulling up. 

 

Her room was very well placed, which of course the Lady had seen to. This would not be her first night on the roofs of Nightingale manor, and likely far from her last…unless this went very poorly indeed.

Scaling the wall took little time at all, a handy raven statue between the ornate dormer windows as familiar to her as an old friend. She swung over its back, and then jumped from it to the roof properly, letting out a sigh at the freedom of it.

No mask, no bindings, no corsets. Just her, the night, her knives…and the enemy of an enemy. She had no desire to speak to him again, no further need for his condescension. Instead she set off across the steeply sloped roof, wending between chimneys. She was a shadow here, a sliver of purpose and strength as sharp as her blades. His presence followed her in silence, the wolf at her heels.

There might still be time yet to kill him…a fancy she should stop indulging. If the Lady Nightingale had a purpose for him, killing him now would only bring her ire. A daydream she would enjoy, plots she would weave, but nothing more for now. Not until her moment came.

 

Her vengeance would be a patient thing, and it would be wholly satisfying.

 

Hands sliding up her thighs, she found the catches of her knives and undid them, drawing out the long, thin blades she kept there. Blackened only last night, they gave no betraying glint in the dark, becoming a part of it as much as she was.

There were three ahead, she could see them in their night-blind clumsiness. Humans. Assassins, most certainly from the look of them, but wearing pitch black and fancy masks. The utter scorn in her heart could have burned them where they crouched if she released it. What a pretty picture they made in their fancy garb. She was already moving forward when she saw a brief flicker of greenish light, and stopped where she stood.

Slinking back into the shadow of a chimney, she shifted her gaze aside to the Dread Wolf. One of the humans was a mage. He caught her look and nodded in recognition, the motion wasting nothing.

Mira could only assume he’d know what to do or she’d have to expose herself, and that was the last thing she desired. Not to him, not to them, and especially not with templars so close by. The idea that he likely thought her life was in his hands was galling, but it was no time for pride.

 

Little blades, sharp blades, safe in her hands as she melted into the shadows, creeping ever closer. They were affixing a rope to one of the chimneys for their descent, and she managed to slide behind it without detection. An easy thing to sever the rope, but an unnecessary risk. Someone might see the corpses, one of them might cling to the wall and survive.

No, it would have to be here that she killed them.

The first cry came as she slid around the side of the chimney, and she took advantage of the surprise to grab an arm. Luckily it wasn’t the mage, and his shock made him stagger instead of pull back. He was stronger than her, but she was small and swift. His boot caught on the sharp pitch of the roof, and as he stumbled, she was upon him like a hawk on a mouse.

Lithe blade, swift blade, angled up and biting through leather. She barely nicked the rib as it slid in, slick and easy as a sailor in a dockside whore. The taste and tingle of the wolf’s magic was in the air, and the sharper Chantry-shamed crackle of a proper mage. She could feel a brief chill, a swirl of light that cast strange shadows all around her.

The man under her knees spasmed and gasped, face behind the mask a ghastly rictus in the green glow, and she twisted the blade to either side before jerking it back out. He would be dead soon, her blackened stiletto gleaming dark with his blood as she rose. A faint temptation to wait out his death throes, but there were still two more. 

As she slipped around the chimney she felt a cool swirl envelop her, clinging to the outside of her skin and surrounding her with a faintly verdant aura. It roused her anger that he would shield her, but she knew it was sensible all the same. She turned her rage instead upon the remaining man who was not locked in mage-struggle with the wolf.

Woman, it seemed, not man, her mask off and frozen to the tile. She was dazed, a sheen of frost over her hair and skin as she shuddered, struggling back to her feet again, heels sliding. She was not allowed the chance to find her purchase. Mira found her hair, gripping through the thin fabric of her hood, and pulled her head back to receive a blade through the eye and into the brain. She braced the body against her knee as she died, clever toes keeping her from slipping on the magic-chilled roof.

The mage assassin had noticed her by then, and a swirl of flame ate at the wolf’s shields around her, scorching the body in her hands. She dropped the woman and darted forward, not bothering to see if she would slump off of the roof. Concern for corpses could be handled once this was over. 

Her thrown knife bounced off his shield and clattered against a chimney, but the wolf took the opportunity to lash out with magic she knew too well. It tasted of the fade, tendrils, tentacles to bind and twist, cracking the shield and pinning the assassin in place. One blade, one throat, and three more steps to finish the fight.

She darted forward, arm sliding around him intimately, the magic jerking his head back to meet her stiletto. Flesh and vein parted smoothly, and he gagged on his blood as she released him, stepping back.

 

Silence upon the roof now, apart from the sound of heavy breaths and waning choking.

 

Hand dripping, she met the wolf’s unseen eyes as the body slumped to the side, chest heaving under the thin cover of her tunic. Slowly, the corner of his lips quirked up to the side in an undeniable smirk.

“The little dog has very sharp teeth.”

Rather than respond to the prod, she lifted her relatively unbloodied hand to her mouth, tucking two fingers between her lips. Sharply, she gave a quick three-note signal that bounced as it found walls to echo off of, and then dropped her hand. They stared at each other in silence while she waited, eventually rewarded with a smattering of responses from around the courtyard, coming closer.

“It is the height of rudeness to invite yourself into a lady’s bedchamber, serah. Even to leave flowers.” She finally replied, once she felt she could control her voice.

“Shall I wait for you to invite me, then?” He asked, giving a very faint chuckle. It was not a kind sound, but it licked at her stomach like flame despite the nastiness.

Her cheeks were flushed only from the chill, of course, and the exertion of the fight. Reaching for the hanging front of her tunic, she lifted it to wipe her blade clean. She was intensely aware that her legs were bared under his sight to well above the knee, but kept her composure. There had been a time when she’d thought nothing of bare-legged scrambles about the forest.

She may have been rigorously trained in etiquette, but deep underneath she was still that Dalish girl. The one who would not ignore what this man had done to her people, to her family, simply because he happened to stir some violently conflicting urges inside her.

“If you like.” She finally replied, sliding the knife home against her thigh. “I would enjoy seeing you suffer waiting for something that will never come.”

Mira turned as another signal came from the courtyard, much nearer now, this one slightly different. The signal was returned, and she moved to start heaving corpses from the roof to the waiting servants below. The fading of his presence behind her was no surprise, and somewhat of a relief as his magic receded. She did not have to turn around to know the wolf had left.

 

The bodies tumbled to the courtyard from the roof were swiftly taken away, no doubt to be examined thoroughly and divested of anything that might give a clue as to who had sent them. Mira claimed the woman’s fallen mask for herself, and retrieved her knife. The blood would wash away soon enough, and until then would only be a vague stain from the ground.

The trek back to her room was tiring enough in her current state, but she kept her wits sharp. Anything could happen atop the roofs with a wolf on the loose. She returned to her friend the raven, giving its weather worn beak a little caress before dropping down, sliding to the wide ledge outside her window. Warmth and light spilled out, and she gave a little sigh, relief settling into her weary heart as she took in the sight of her sanctuary.

The Lady had sent someone to leave her a bath. Gratitude warmed even more than a fire as she dropped into the room and started stripping, wriggling out of her bloodspattered tunic. If the Nightingale had already heard about her evening’s adventures, the bath meant that she wasn’t expected to go and report tonight.

Freed of knives and clothing, she turned to close her shutters at last, the last swirl of cool air fluttering through the room as she latched them tightly. Shivering and rubbing an arm across her bare chest, she was eagerly turning towards the bath when she caught sight of it.

Perched atop her pillow, where the other flower had been. A single orange begonia, and a delicate, pale pink dog rose with its wicked thorns intact. The subtle insult of the second flower couldn’t even sink in at first, far less than the impact of the overall message.

The sheer audacity left her breathless.

A warning, the stiff-petaled sunset flower was, and she wrinkled her nose slightly as she picked it up, twirling it in her fingers. It tucked behind her pointed ear, and she reached for the second blossom, avoiding the bite of the thorns. The begonia was the warning, and the dog rose was the threat…or promise, perhaps.

 

Pleasure and pain.

 

Mira inhaled its ghostly, uncultivated scent as she turned back for the bath, lips pursing together. She was displeased, she reminded herself, reminded the little twist of contrary arousal in her stomach. He had invaded her room a second time, so casually, immediately after she ordered him not to. She should be infuriated. Tossing the little wild rose into the water, she followed after it with a sigh, watching the petals wilt as she sunk down as deep as she could in the small tub.

Firelight flickering across the wet curve of her knee and calf, she found her mind betraying her utterly as she gave in to temptation and sated herself in the warm water. It wasn’t the lady’s charming Antivan friend, or even the solemn, thoughtful artist that fired her imagination as her fingers slid between her thighs, but the arrogant, mocking wolf.

 

A moment’s lapse, that was all. She was still going to kill him.

 

After all, she had a promise to keep.


	3. Promenade

_Halamshiral._

Even the name spoke of a history dripping with blood, stained scarlet by centuries of injustice.  Mirane knew that she of all people should understand and bear the weight of it, of Dalish blood and childhood, though she was educated in the house of a Lady.

She was unmoved by it, and felt no guilt for that.  It was a skill she had cultivated, and to feel it bear fruit was rewarding.  It was not the plight of her people, she was merely a collection of masks now, and her people changed as her face did.  Nothing more.

The hated note so crudely thrust between her teeth had said very little.  The Lady Nightingale had shown it to her once the other maids had been dismissed.  The Duchess Florienne’s ball.  An invitation Lady Leliana had received, and had not intended to accept…but the Dread Wolf wished for them to go.

Accompany him, he said, as if he would make so bold as to show his face.  Arrogant coward.  A contradiction, perhaps, but a truth all the same.  A promise of a plot in the brief missive, something the Lady Nightingale could not ignore.  Not on his part, oh no.  He was merely warning them as a courtesy.

Courtesy!  As if the man knew the meaning of the word.  She would have called him a rogue, but the insinuations of the word were far more dashing than he deserved.  Zevran was dashing.  The Wolf was a blight upon Thedas.  Never before had she wished so fervently for the Templars to capture an apostate.

Suddenly the rooftop rescue of Knight Captain Denam had made so much more sense.  Proving himself helpful, perhaps, or at least amenable.  Well!  If he had intended to make an agreeable impression, he had failed utterly.  He had…

The day dress she was packing crumpled under her hands, and she forced them relaxed, letting out a quiet sigh.  Gentle hands smoothed it over again, and she settled it into her trunk.  Half full of masks, it seemed to be, but costumes could be come by.  Masks?  Masks were much more difficult to find on a whim.  She needed to bring all of her faces, the most scandalous settled gently into the false bottom of her trunk with the extra knives and poisons.

“Darling Hunter!”  Mercer called as the door swung inward, and she glanced up and over.  “Scrivener has said that you will join the Six for this trip.  Unavoidable, I fear.  Friseur has come down with an unavoidable case of uncorsetable stomach.”

At any other time she might relish the gossip.  Silly Friseur!  She should know better than to get with child, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t access to every single remedy.  Then again, she had been claiming as of late that she was feeling quite done with the roving and revelry.  Perhaps it was intentional.  This life was certainly not for everyone.

“I have all I need, but please remind Scrivener that the Lady Nightingale has requested that the portraitist and the Knight Captain accompany us on the journey, and both have seen me as a servant, not a Lady’s maid.”  She replied at once, already beginning to undo the livery.  There was no time to waste, if she wished to get into her new costume in time for the train.  Shifting all the weaponry would take some time.  “Could you send someone to lace me in, then?”

“As if Denam will notice, he can’t look past his own nose.”  Mercer replied mockingly, and then laughed at the look she gave her.  “Hunter, you’re so serious.  An elven portraitist will not rank well enough to make a fuss over someone changing masks.  Even if he does, no one will listen.”

“Yes, thank you, Jeanette.”  She replied in her driest of  voices, raising one brow.  At least Mercer had the grace to look slightly chagrined as she realized her misstep.  “My place is more tenuous than yours, I must be more careful.  Even if you do not understand, I would be exceedingly grateful if you would do as I ask.”

“Of course, Hunter.  My sincerest apologies.”  Mercer replied guilelessly, her smile as bright and winsome as her heart was warm.  It never ceased to amaze her that such a kind, silly woman was such a deadly killer.  “I did not mean to imply anything about your heritage.  Sometimes I forget.  We are all alike here, after all.”

“I understand.”  It was all she could say while being truthful, inclining her head as Jeanette slipped out.  

 

The garment slid smoothly from her shoulders much like the unintended insult.  If she held them all to her, she would never be capable of moving under the strain.  There were always a thousand slights, and she had learned to glide through them, and in some cases, use them.  They could be secretive weapons, slid away to be used when necessary, much like the small, slender knives.

The servant’s garb was folded swiftly, added to her heavy and worn trunk.  It might be necessary, though she would need to acquire a set of Halamshiral livery as well.  Easily done.  Sighing, she spun to face the corsets awaiting in her wardrobe.  At least, she reminded herself yet again, she need not be laced up tightly.  A small mercy.  The skirts on her traveling gown were heavy enough on their own, and would slow her down considerably.

The Wolf’s involvement in this journey made her all too certain that it would not be a pleasant one, and she wished to be prepared.  For anything.

Mira did not share the Lady Nightingale’s view that a possible assassination of the Empress was worth this trip, but she was loyal.  To Leliana…she was loyal.  Even if it meant walking into the Dread Wolf’s trap.  Or a thousand others laid out by a thousand hands.  Court.  And her in pointed ears and the mask of a Lady’s maid.  It would be…an experience.

 

 

 

The world spun by out past the window, felt in the rumble of the carriage, the slight rattle of the pane of glass.  She could not say precisely that she enjoyed traveling by train, she much preferred horseback, but for speed and convenience it had no peer.  Even relegated to the second carriage as she was, the surroundings were much more sumptuous than any other she had been on.  Being out of servant’s livery had its pleasantries.

Idly she ran fingers over the worn burgundy leather of the seat, between her and her charge.  Daylight was waning out past the fields, and her gaze was fixed upon the colours that spilled across them.  Fire and desperation, the last burst of  bright violence before darkness descended and muffled it all in night.  

Her companion sneezed, and she solicitously turned her attention to his needs, finding a handkerchief to wipe his snuffling nose.  Poor old thing.  Not that he minded the travel, of course, he was quite used to it.  Delicate whiskers quivered as she wiped them dry, and then the elderly nug laid back down on his cushion, wheezing a sigh.

“I wonder…”  The slow contemplation was offered to her as a shadow was cast across her seat.  She raised her head to greet the polite incline of his, before the portraitist settled in the seat across from her, crossing his long legs.  “If it is an honor or no to be entrusted with such a position.”

“Tending nugs, or a seat in the second car, Messere Solas?”  She asked, unable to hide the curve of her lips, tugging up the left side.  “For I must confess I have sat much further back than here, and dear Schmooples has been in much loftier accommodations.  But the Knight Captain insists upon smoking, and the small fellow is elderly and far too beloved for the Lady Nightingale to risk.  It makes him sneeze…more than he already does.”

“The nug tending, as I feel much the same as you about the seating.  I am surprised that the Lady Leliana welcomes elves at all above the baggage car.”  His lips curved in that subtle, soothing smile.  His voice found a certain sonorous harmony with the shift of his features, and she could not help but be drawn in by it.  He was…calming to speak to.  “I have been more kindly treated than I have been in some time within the borders of Orlais.”

“The Lady Leliana values skill more than birth.”  She replied smoothly, and then tilted her head to the side, smile small and discreet.  “It is very accommodating of you to travel with us to work.  I cannot help but think it must be a great inconvenience.”

“Who am I to protest?”  He gestured lightly with one hand, and she found herself smiling wryly in understanding.  “Any delay would only result in unpleasantness from my next subject, after all.  To be in demand, and be inferior, serah, is a complicated business.”

The deliberate use of the title made her smile, and she shook her head, carefully adjusting her hat afterwards as it went slightly askew.  Not that she thought he would misplace her, even in a different mask and with her vallaslin and hair covered.  He was a painter, after all.  He had likely marked her long before she spoke.

“I wonder that you have not asked about my face.”  She broached boldly, adjusting the mask settled over her painted skin.  The lack of vallaslin made her all the more ignored, which was useful for now.  “I suppose our household must seem most strange to you.”

“When you travel as often as I, you become accustomed to strangeness.  Such as servants donning the face of a Lady’s maid and attending to the needs of an aged rodent.”  He gave poor old Schmooples a dubious look as he sneezed again, the little squeak high and piercing.  “I wonder if I will be able to capture its…charm sufficiently.”

“Is Lady Leliana going to sit with him, then?”  She inquired as she dug out a treat for the poor old creature.  It snuffled it from her palm, nose nudging along. “I suppose that’s not terribly surprising.  I am afraid he does not have too many more years in him…”

Her words were interrupted as the door nearby slid open, and Emmaline slipped in.  The knowing look lasted only a second, and she was grateful that the painter had his back turned to it.  Her slight tilt of her chin was greeted with the barest hint of a nod, barely shivering carefully arranged curls.

“We need a sixth for cards!”  Scrivener called cheerfully as she approached, gloved hands fluttering in a little wave.  “Serah Solas, will you be utterly devastated if I steal away your conversation partner?  It is very unkind of me.”

“Far be it for me to keep her, though I fear that her companion will be bereft in her absence.”  The portraitist replied smoothly, expression unchanging.  She felt perhaps the slightest tug of disappointment that it did not.  “I cannot claim any skill in tending to nugs.”

“Oh, no, we certainly wouldn’t ask that of you!  It is hardly your responsibility, serah!”  Emmaline assured cheerfully, moving to gently scoop up both Schmooples and his rather extravagant bedding.  The elderly, long-suffering animal gave no protest.  He may have been dozing.  “I shall go settle him with the Lady Leliana.  Come, girl.”

The pleasant, but obviously curt summonses had her shooting to her feet, hands folding together at her waist.  Indulging, she offered a small, genuine smile down to Solas, and was gratified  to receive a slight one in response.

“Messere.”  She murmured softly, before slipping away to scurry after Emmaline with a twist of her skirts, as if properly subservient.  

 

 

She kept the facade until the doors closed between them and they slipped into the next car.  Gilt and  leather, dark mahogany wood, it made her all too aware that what she considered extravagance was far from it.  How curious to rise so high, only to realize you would never be any more than you were born.  It was not a new revelation, but it never ceased being amusing.  

She could kill them, but not live like them.

Scrivener handed off the nug to a waiting servant, and then pulled her into the compartment to the left.  With six people within all trying to change, it was unavoidably cramped, but there was no time for protesting or fussing.  The instant she was through the door, Emmaline was turning her around and pressing her against it to start undoing the back of her gown.  Chaunter moved to do the same for Emmaline, deft hands and fingers making short work of a myriad tiny buttons and the laces and fastenings underneath.

“Two companies, from what word we had from the road.”  Scrivener began, wincing slightly at the tug of her corsets, before pulling away to finish undressing.  “Someone does not wish for us to reach Halamshiral, which only confirms the information Lady Nightingale received.”

“They’re trying to intercept the train?”  Mercer asked, somewhat aghast.  She was already dressed, but Mira felt a stab of worry.  She was not trained for this sort of work, her skill was in ballrooms, salons.  “That is utter foolishness!  They will lose more men attempting the feat than anything!”

“Two companies are little trouble for the six of us.”  Chaunter dismissed, thin voice cold and focused as she twisted back her hair and settled her hood over it.  “Each of us is worth more than a dozen men.”

Mirane remained silent, stripping out of her gown and reaching for the clothing already awaiting her.  Mottled grey and black, with hints of green, an old worn tunic and hood, and her leggings.  The others wore boots, but she never would.  Especially not tonight.  Instead she sat on the edge of the seating in the cramped compartment and wrapped her feet securely in thin leather.  Over it all, she strapped her knives again, those that were not hidden under her clothing already.

“There is no need for arrogance.”  Scrivener snapped, and then smoothed her voice out again, calm and quiet.  “They may have mages.  Swift and silent.  You know your places.  Hunter!”

She drew her gaze up to meet Scrivener’s, piercing and pale.  She held it for a moment, before sliding the featureless black mask over her face, making her the same as the rest.  Ears, face, feet, all could be hidden, leaving her as nothing but a shadow.

“Do what you have to.  You have leave.”  Scrivener finished, and she nodded her head minutely.  “Lady Nightingale would like to remind us all that the safety of those on this train is in our hands.  That is all.”

The rest of their preparations were done in silence, many only in minds, and hearts.  It was not a new duty, not to any of them, but it was never easy.  Mirane took the time to settle her own thoughts, letting them drift into the particular rhythm of instinct and reaction, calm and calculating.

When the compartment door slid open again, a looming guard to either side of the door blocked the hallway entirely, allowing no one to pass by, or peek in.  Someone had already opened the hatch to the roof, and the air swirled in, chilled by the night that had enveloped the world entirely.

One by one, they lifted each other up and slipped through, Mirane last.  She was the most lithe, after all, and easily lifted up as Scrivener reached down for her.  She swung up, toes catching on the edge of the hatch to push herself up the last few inches, before it was slammed closed behind her.

The disorientation was instantaneous.  Wind whistling by, darkness all around them, the rhythm of the train a constant shudder and roll.  They were all highly trained, of course, but none of them were familiar with this.  Chaunter was the first to find her balance and rise, and Mira followed after, creeping away from the group against the slashing of the wind.

She had the best eyes, after all.

Lights flickered by as they passed farms, little more than streaks of gold in the darkness, and she was grateful for the tightness of her hood, keeping it from fluttering back.  Even so, she could still hear the whistle in her ears, making her eyes water as she stared out into the dark.  Mira could feel them moving behind her, taking position, guarding.  It was hardly a comfortable post, but they did what they had to do.  The Lady demanded it, and they were her maids.

Quietly, above the noise of the wind, the two-note whistle of readiness was passed from lips to lips, bouncing back and forth across the roof of the train.  She counted them carefully, and added hers after the fifth.  

In the pitch dark and fierce wind atop the thundering train, they waited.

 

 

It must have been hours, as she was cramped and chilled in ways she had not been since hiding behind a chantry cupola in the dead of winter.  Every now and again she could see someone rise to a crouch, pace, stretch, and then return to their vantage point.  It would do them no good, after all, to be unable to move when…if the enemy came.  She was lucky that she had no old injuries to plague her.

Their necessity was a question she thought might last the whole night unanswered, but after two long and grueling hours the first sign of the enemy came.  The sound of thundering horses.  She picked it up long before anyone else, separating it from the noise of the train and sounding out the barest whisper of a whistle back to Scrivener, faint enough to be mistaken for birdsong.  She returned it, and then it quietly echoed along the train before going silent again.

The tension was high, the sway of the train providing a rhythm to match her movements as she slid knives free, toes curling for purchase against the rough roof.  She settled into it, letting it flow through her, leaving her prepared for the first incursion.  Mages.  She knew they’d have some, how else would they risk an assault on a train in the dead of night?  The crackle of power flowed through the air, spilled across her tongue before the first attack came.

They may have had magic to aid them in their ascent, but they were not expecting to be anticipated.  They came from behind, and the first scream rang out far from her vantage, but she held her ground and turned only to watch.  It was not difficult to see, they foolishly brought lanterns with them, a mistake they would pay for swiftly.  The glow from the train windows was more than enough for her.

Knives cut through the air, in an eye, a throat, sending bodies slumping off the train to be crushed into the tracks or dashed on the rocks.  The first few never even reached the waiting defenders, but before long superior numbers ensured at least a handful of assassins were atop the train.  She tried to count them in the darkness, crouched over as they were.  Eight…ten…perhaps a dozen, but that was when the fighting started, and it became much more muddied even to her sight.  Shadows and wind, lanterns and shifting blurs of moving bodies.

She knew nothing of what was happening until she heard a loud thud from behind her.  Spinning on a heel, she was greeted with the sight of a second attempt at an ascent, an approach somehow silenced by a second mage.  That, of all times, was when the first whistle came from behind her.  Three quick notes, Jeanette’s call.

Mercer had fallen.

 

All it was now was a shift in tactics, one less ally to count on.  No time for grief, no time for shock.  Five.  Five of them now, as a knife left her hand and found an eye in the darkness, sending an interloper off of the train.  Short.  They were all quite small in frame.  Ten against her, four enemies behind her, two mages, and five…

Another sharp signal, as enemies behind her fell.  The mage had claimed another victim, she could feel the spell in the air they had used.  Four.  Four of her sisters remained.  The pincer attack had been unanticipated, the ascent from the front of the train unnoticed.  This had gone very badly indeed.  They would not breech the train, but how many of them would be left in the end?

Throwing was the surest way here on the roof, with the sway and roll that made every step a dance and danger.  Still, she moved, as she had no choice but to, small blades cutting through the air.  Light and discreet, and with an edge that ensured they flew straight.  An edge that crackled in her blood, and flowed through her fingertips.

A tiny indulgence, the barest hint of magic.  The Nightingale had told her to do as she must, but it was so difficult to relinquish her control enough to use the hum and shiver that lived in her bones.  She had kept it back for so long, after all.  The blades flew home, one by one, a throat, an eye, into a shoulder when she had no other choice.  She slowly backed, and wove, avoiding light until her back came up against Scrivener’s, and another whistle sounded out.

Three.  Three of them left, her and Scrivener, and the one in the darkness over her shoulder, fighting the mage.  She could hear the scream, as Emmaline ducked around her to draw her sword, a long thin blade that caught the edge of lamplight despite its darkening.

“One.  One mage left, and the two of us.  Chaunter is injured.”  Scrivener told her harshly, voice low and quiet.  “Four other assassins left.  Our back is clear.”

_Our back clear, and our sisters dead._

How many dead and not only injured, she did not know, but that hardly mattered now.  If they did not stop these assassins, they would all be swiftly disposed of.  There was no charging, not on the roof of a train, but Scrivener darted forward abruptly, moving with the rhythm, body lowered against the wind.  As she swept past, Mira freed another knife from her rapidly dwindling stores, a gentle curse escaping her lips the necessity of hand to hand combat.

All too risky.

 

Even with her eyesight, it was too difficult in the darkness now.  These were not pitch black courtly assassins in leather and silver to catch the light.  No.  Dressed no more extravagantly than them, with wrapped feet and thin blades, these were…

One finally reached her as Scrivener went to try and engage the mage, and she easily disarmed them with a twist of their arm.  The momentum of the train’s roll ensured they were in no state to stop her as she kicked them to their knees and slit their throat.  A flash of the knife, a quick parting of flesh.  Stop, turn, face the next.  

She was already halfway around when the blow came to her back, an errant burst of mage lightning that threw her down, made muscles spasm.  Sparks, twisting down her fingertips, demanding release that she would not give.

Scrabbling for purchase, hands slick with blood, she was tangled with the corpse as she fell, dead limbs weighing her.  It gave her something to kick under the feet of the approaching assassin, at least, but they somehow managed to dodge their dead compatriot.

And then they were upon her.  A gleam in the darkness caught her eyes, which only confirmed what she had already known.  Elves.  They were elves.  Instinct won when mind was distracted, and the attacker never felt the blade glide between their ribs until it was too late.  There was still a knife on her neck, but only the tiniest surge of magic held it where it was while the assassin choked.

It didn’t keep the knife out of her thigh, but that was a wound she could fight with.  Hopefully.  The stab was numbed by focus, but shallow enough that when she pulled out the blade, she bit back her scream.  If it had gone against the bone, she doubted she could have.  Her hand trembled as she dropped the knife.

 

Only seconds had passed, but it felt like a lifetime now, as she struggled her way out from under the dead elf.  There was silence on the roof, and she had to know what it meant as quickly as possible.  The train could not be breached.  The corpse was abruptly thrown off of her, and a hand extended down.  She took it without thinking, and heaved herself to her feet, testing the weight on her injured leg.

She could see him, just out of the corner of her vision as he released her hand.  Of course.  She would not be surprised if this had all been a game of his.  What did he care for lives?  The Dread Wolf spent them like coin while claiming change and freedom for the elves.  She turned her gaze fixedly away from him, staring out into the darkness now, lit only by a fallen lantern and the windows of the train.  She carefully moved to pick up the light source, before its reservoir could spill.

 

“You really should be more careful, little dog.”  The Wolf chided her, and she felt a hard surge of anger settle in her gut, bolstering her spine.  “Don’t you know they put down limping animals?”

“Have a care, serah.”  She replied icily, voice hoarse in the whistling wind, drying blood chilling her to the bone.  “I have lost sisters this evening, and have no patience for your insults and insinuations.”

In the darkness she could see him pull back slightly, and she moved further away, gritting her teeth as the high of battle came crashing down, taking away the comfortable numbness.  Most of the corpses had slipped off of the roof, of course.  Where was Scrivener?

“Your sister…is inside.  Wounded but alive.”  Did he sound apologetic?  Of course not.  Perhaps his arrogance had just grown so thick he had choked upon it.  “With the injured.  Two were lost.”

Two.  Only two.  She already knew one of them was Jeanette, but there was no time for grieving.  No time at all.  Carefully kneeling down, refusing to let herself wince, she grabbed a corpse by the arm and dragged it up before it could slide to be tumbled off the train.

“How kind of you to come when we had already handled the fight.”  She finally snapped it, losing just an iota of her control.  She was tired, cold, and bleeding.  Manners could wait for a more suitable target.  “Perhaps you should be the maid, Serah Wolf.  You clean up after others so excellently.  Then again, a maid is useful, as you are so clearly not.”

“You will find no missives, no insignia.  They belong to Ambassador Briala.”  The Wolf informed her, ignoring the insult wholly.  She wasn’t sure if she was pleased or displeased by that.  “If they are for your Lady Nightingale or for one of your guests?  I could not tell you.  Halamshiral is a knot of intrigue.”

The corpse’s mask was plain enough to be easily replaced, but she took it all the same.  One never knew when the slightest change of a face might be important.  The face underneath was young.   Scarred.  She took its chin and turned it from side to side in examination.

“Alienage.”  She remarked, before sitting down next to it, the last of her energy draining.  “But where were the mages from?  Apostates?  That does not sound like the Ambassador.”

“Perhaps she is more desperate than you know.”  His words sounded somewhat hollow, a slight deflection.  Her eyes shifted sidelong in the darkness to where he crouched, and narrowed.  “But no.  They were from the Circle.  Troublemakers.  Frequent attempted escapees.”

“A feat, to slip them out from under the nose of the Templars.  I will inform the Lady.”  She replied, body shaking and swaying with the rattle of the train.  It had become almost soothing now, for all that it vibrated in her bones.  If only it were not so cold.  “Is there aught else she should know?”

“Apart from the fact that you nearly failed her?  No.  I think not.  Try not to tumble off the train on your way back inside.  I would heal you, but I would not wish to presume upon your sweet and forgiving nature.”  Ah, there was the arrogance again.  It was nearly an old friend now.  The sort that you were waiting to stab in the back, of course.  “Have a care, little dog.  If you die, I will have to train a new beast to carry my messages.”

“Have no fear, Serah Wolf.  If I die, it will be with my knife in your throat, and you will have no words left to speak.”  The hatred seeped into her voice before she could pull it back, coloring every word with a disdain old and heavy.  She had no patience for coy insinuation now.  “Nothing of value will be lost.”

Silence but for the wind and the train, until she heard him give the faintest hint of a chuckle.  It was surprisingly warm for the topic of conversation, and ended in a small sigh.  While he did so, she ripped off the edge of her tunic and bound her thigh deftly, quelling the sluggish bleeding.

“Enjoy Halamshiral, I am certain it will enjoy you.  I have no doubt we will see one another again soon.”  A promise, and perhaps the edge of a threat buried underneath in his low voice.  “Dareth shiral.”

 

The elven farewell made her stiffen, lips pursing together in distaste.  Arrogance again, to presume to speak to her so?  There was a hint of movement in the darkness from the corner of her eye, but she did not turn her head to watch it.  

Mira did not have to look to know that he was gone.  Where and how?  It was a mystery he likely knew she had no interest in pursuing right now.  He was a mage, of course, he could have been anywhere, and she was injured and exhausted.  How dare he appear once the battle was near to over, once good people had already been lost?  He could have helped.  He could have…done something.  The arrogance she could forgive, but not the deaths of her sisters he could have helped prevent.

By the time she felt ready to move, sunrise had slashed its way across the horizon, and she was shivering violently, cold down to her bones.  Still, she watched until it had risen, and then slowly dragged herself to her feet, grabbing the wrist of the dead assassin at her side and hauling him with her.  Despite the Wolf’s words, someone might wish to look him over.

As she straightened up as best she could, she turned her gaze back across the train, shaking her head slightly at the spatters and pools of dried blood splashed across its surface.  Not quite so easy to hide as the roof of the manor, that was for certain.

Still, she had a feeling no one would be asking any questions.  Lady Nightingale was skilled at preventing them.

With a sigh, and a gentle tap of her knuckles against the closed hatch, she waited to be let back in again.  The compartment was crowded once more when she was ushered in to be tended to, the beds full, a healer carefully stitching up an injury in Scrivener’s side.  It looked as if she would keep until a mage could see to her at their stop.

Dull and displeased, her anger only rose as she realized the quiet bent of tired conversation flickering between those beds.  It was not enough that he had not aided in the fight, oh no.  He had the gall to save their lives, it seemed.  One thrown off the train, saved by the Wolf.  One bleeding out, healed by him.  He had…

There was no room for gratitude in her mind.  She was furious that he had stolen the righteousness from her rage.  It made no sense, but nothing seemed to as of late.  He had let her vent her spite and mockery at him, and had said nothing.  He had been saving lives while she was killing.  How dare he?

 

Insufferable bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I'm not certain when this will update again, but I had a bit of blockage on other fics and felt a change of pace would be nice <3 Likewise, no, this fic is not dead.


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